Arthur Upfield - The Devil_s Steps

Miss Jade had emerged from one of thefrench windows opening on to the veranda, and Fred waited no longer. Bony waved a hand, and Miss Jade gaily waved back to him.

Having passed through the wicket gate and down the ramp, Bony strolled up along the highway. Before long he crossed the road on the lower side of which had been erected white-painted guide posts. Here a gravelled path had been put down, the surface of which was smooth and soft and able to take the impressions of many boots and shoes.

The first impressions that he recognised were those made by Mr. Watkins and his wife. They were at times overlaying those made by Fred when on his way to work at the Chalet that morning. Much farther on, he found the shoe-prints left by Leslie, the artist, and these several tracks were included among very many others which he had never seen before.

The highway turned and twisted around the shoulders of the mountain, and on the top side he could see here and there a house, and here and there a grass paddock widely separated by areas of tall bracken from which towered the smooth and slim trunks of the mast-like mountain ash. Now the road was curving about the slopes of a wide gully and down there grew masses of tree-ferns, the new growth of fronds vividly green against the dark green of the older growth.

He saw the fruit shop long before he reached it, and when he did so, he accosted a man standing at the door beside a stall loaded with apples and oranges, soft drinks and lollies.

“Is Mr. Bagshott’s house much farther on?”

“Aw, no! A couple of chains and a bit. Place with a tall hedge ’round it. Can’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

Through the shop door Bony could see several small tables flanked by chairs.

“Have you got any real dry ginger ale?” he enquired.

“Too right! The realmackie.”

The man led the way inside and Bony sat at one of the tables.

“There aren’t many people on the road today,” he ventured.

“Never is much during the week. This afternoon and tomorrow there’ll be cars enough-hundreds of ’em.” The shopman set down a bottle of ginger ale and a glass, and at his customer’s invitation, he brought another glass and bottle and sat down opposite the detective.

“You intend to visit at Bagshott’s?” he enquired.

“No. I am not acquainted with him,” Bony replied. “Read his books, and then, hearing that he lived up here, I became curious to see his place. I would like to live here myself.”

The shopman settled down.

“Some of his books are pretty good, and someain’t so good,” was his verdict. “He can write all right, but he’s a bit wonky in the conk, if you know what I mean. Don’t associate with no one. Told me once that he’s got everyone at bay and intends keeping ’emthere. Don’t blame him much for that, any’ow. They’re a funny lot hereabouts, and it’s me saying it what has lived here for forty-odd years.”

“What’s the matter with them?” Bony mildly enquired, and the shopman rose to walk to the door to spit. When he returned, he said:

“Well, you see it’s like this. The mob up here areatwix ’ and between. They’re neither country nor city. There’s two sorts too. There’s the kind what’s come up here to live till death doth claim ’em, and there’s the kind what’s lived here most all their lives-like me. Bagshott don’t care two hoots for either kind, so he told me. All heated up about it, too, when he was telling me. Course, he was mixed up in a murder over inW. A. some years back. I never rightly got to hear the strength of it, but I’ve been told that he sooled a bloke on to do a murder or two.”

“Indeed!” Bony said, politely.“Mixed up in a murder-or two! Did he go to gaol?”

“I don’t rightly know about that. Mind you, he’s just the kind to commit a murderso’s he could put it in a book.”

“H’m! Strange man. He doesn’t appear to have a very good character.”

“You’re telling me.”

“I have heard,” Bony said, lowering his voice. “I have heard that Bagshott has a wireless and that the Secret Service was out during the war trying to trap him sending messages to theJaps. Is that right, do you think?”

“I think so. I wasn’t up here during the war. Down making munitions. But there was talk of it.”

“And I heard, too, that he’s friendly with a single woman who has a child by him.”

The shopman pursed his lips and looked wise. Then he winked both his eyes one after the other. He said:

“Well, personally speaking, I don’t seenothing wrong with that. Still, that’s what has gone around up here.”

“And even that he catches rabbits and poisons them to watch them die so that he can use the information in his books,” persisted Bony.

“Oh, that’s a fact,” claimed the man. “I told him about that once, and he said that in between rabbits he grabs a local dog and tries out some special stuff on them.”

“And that he never allows his wife to leave the place.”

“That’s so, but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe in painting a man blacker than he is. He’s black enough, from all that’s said.”

“Very black,” Bony added with emphasis. “Well, I’ll be getting along. See you another day, perhaps.”

Continuing his stroll along the path outside the white posts, Bony admitted to himself that Clarence B. Bagshott must have a picturesque personality. It could not be all smoke without some fire, and if he had really been mixed up in one murder-nay, was it not two or more?-he might well be mixed up in the murder of Grumman.

He passed a house, over the front gate of which was a sign announcing that it was a Police Station, and saw nothing of Sub-Inspector Mason. Then he passed a service garage with its petrol pumps, and finally came in sight of a house, only the roof of which could be seen above the tallcyprus hedge. There was a side road flanking this hedge. One gate opened on to the side road, and there was another gate fronting the main highway. The latter was open, and as he approached it, a car backed out. From the car alighted the man who had been pointed out to him on the bus as Clarence B. Bagshott.

Bagshott was middle-aged, tall and thin. He was wearing khaki drill trousers, a pair of old boots, a drill shirt and no hat, and by the time he had closed the gate, Bony was standing beside the car. Keen hazel eyes examined him. The breeze lifted dark brown hair growing low to the man’s forehead. And then Bony saw that the hazel eyes recognised him for what he was-a half-caste. He said:

“You are most fortunate in being able to live up here.”

Bagshott smiled, saying:

“Bit of a change from carrying a swag west of the Paroo. What part do you come from?”

“West of a line from the Paroo River north to Longreach,” replied Bony.

“Is thatso! ” Bagshott’s face beamed. “I haven’t been out west since ’thirty-two. How’s the country looking?”

“Very bad just now. Wants rain badly. The stock is poor.”

“Bad condition to start the summer in, eh? Well, I must be going.” Bagshott went round to get into the car, and then he halted and looked across the bonnet. “I’ve been promising myself a month’s holiday up at Wanaaring. Know it?”

Bony nodded, his eyes alight, the smell of the place in his nostrils.

“I’ve promised myself a full month on the beer at Wanaaring,” Bagshott continued. “For the first week I’ll be going around on my hands and knees. After that I’ll be feeling very good. I’ve been a long time away from civilised people. Cheerio!”

Bony laughed, delightedly. The car was backed out to the centre of the road, and turned to travel down the highway. Bagshott smiled at him as he passed, and Bony continued to walk on. He walked on for perhaps a hundred yards, regarding the painted wireless masts. Then he turned, strolling casually back until he came to Bagshott’s gate, where he paused for two seconds. The marks of the motor tyres were plain on the softened gravel between gate and roadway. So, too, were the impressions of Bagshott’s shoes. They were size twelve. They were soled with rubber, still bearing a well-known trademark. They were the shoes, or the twin of the shoes, that had left impressions on the Chalet ramp and about Bisker’s hut.